


Bright Light, Crooked Land [Translation]

by therm0dynamics



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therm0dynamics/pseuds/therm0dynamics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five times in other places + one time in new orleans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Light, Crooked Land [Translation]

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Bright Light, Crooked Land](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240420) by [ridgeline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridgeline/pseuds/ridgeline). 



> author's note: none of the characters belong to me. the lyrics quoted are from "sittin' on top of the world" by jack white and trombone shorty's version of "ooh poo pah doo."

**I.**

Rust Cohle slouches when he walks. His face is narrow and gaunt, his rough skin stretched so tightly across sunken cheekbones it seems as if he could split open at any moment. When Rust looks at people, he stares them down, impassive, eyes patient and half-lidded, like he’s slowly extracting each and every one of their secrets.

The first time Marty meets Rust, he’s in Major Salter’s office, listening to Salter go on and on about something. He’s faking a fully engaged and earnest expression while mentally trying to read between the lines of what Salter is saying, to pick up on the evasive subtext about his new partner. Rust, on the other hand, just stares pointedly at the wallpaper with his head held stiffly forward, his entire body radiating nonchalant indifference. Finally, Salter shuts up and Marty’s forced to helplessly extend his hand out, not knowing which cloudcuckooland Cohle’s mind has flown off to. He prepares to awkwardly retract his hand, but Rust glances at him, pauses, and sticks his own hand out for a handshake.

“Touching. Now get the hell out of my office, both of you,” Salter says.

Outside, Rust makes a slow prowling loop around the officers’ work area, examining this and that, poking around here and there. Marty stays put right where he is, keeping his gaze locked on his desk, pretending to occupy himself with paperwork. Rust finally drops himself into the the desk facing him and picks up his own files. Marty looks up. The collective focus of every worker in the room is on the two of them and Marty blinks, pretending not to feel the buzzing tension in the air.

“It’s hot in here,” Rust says in a low, vague voice, drawling out his vowels.

“What?” Marty says.

No answer.

For the remainder of the day, Rust says next to nothing. Based on the clues gathered the bare minimum amount of dialogue they do exchange, Marty slowly figures Cohle out. The man’s just like a cheap paperweight, a useless lump, something you’d get at Walmart for a buck-fifty, something whose sole purpose was to just sit there and mind its own business. Marty shrugs. Fine by him.

After an hour or so, Rust gets up to use the bathroom. The other officers perk up once he walks out the door, all of them waiting for the jokes about the new guy to start. Rust doesn’t know the code to open the bathroom door yet, so everyone watches him lurking around in the hallway in his crook-legged manner, waiting for someone else to go so he can trail in after. Then he gives up and disappears downstairs to try his luck in some other squad’s office. Every officer in the room seems to be holding their breath, waiting for someone else to start laughing first.  
  
A few minutes later, Rust meanders back in, hands still wet, and silently retakes his place back at the desk across from Marty. Then, after a very long pause, as if a deeply-drawn, long-held breath was suddenly exhaled, all the officers sitting with their feet kicked up on the table, the officers pretending to get coffee, the ones aimlessly wandering around with case files, all stop bullshitting and get on with what they’re actually supposed to be doing.

“It really is hot in here,” Rust mutters slowly again, still expressionless.

He’s slicked his hair down with water and it sticks to his forehead and curls up everywhere else. It looks odd, something that he probably should’ve been self-conscious about, but he wasn’t, not in the least.

“If you say so,” Marty replies.

 

**II.**

The first time they work a case together, Rust gets to the crime scene half an hour early. From a distance, Marty spots him standing by the treeline at the edge of the field. As he nears, he sees that he looks pale in the freezing cold, but also kind of not fully awake. His stiff windbreaker hangs awkwardly on his shoulders and one of his hands tightly clutches onto his notebook. Still not in the mood for small talk, then – Marty nearly chuckles at the thought.

The crime scene technicians and several county officers traipse over, like a crooked procession of navy-clad scarecrows, to where the state police patrol squad is standing. One of the officers, Jimmy Cowan, quickly briefs Marty, but Marty doesn’t fully grasp the situation from Cowan’s vague description. He looks to Rust instead, who points at the overgrown field behind them and proceeds to give him a very thorough explanation. Rust's a little more than a bit weird, but he’s also _far_ more than competent at his job, and Marty almost feels sorry for him. After Rust finishes talking, silence falls, leaving just the two of them standing slightly apart, awaiting the return of the tech who drove the pickup off to fetch the floodlights and generator.

All the other officers talk amongst themselves – about last night’s game, their bets on the upcoming horse race – some of them pace up and down, trying to keep warm in the brutal cold. Rust stands apart, rubbing his lips with one hand and peering into the meadow, as if there were some knowledge hidden in the wild grass that only he could understand. He looks half-brilliant, half-crazy. Not the good kind of crazy. Not the bad kind either. More like the shrewd-crazy of a shotgun-wielding farmer who hunted coons in the woods and navigated the swamplands for a living. Marty sighs and stamps his feet to warm himself up. Just a few short hours ago, he was dozing off on the living room couch, watching the game, drinking his whiskey – and now he’s standing outside, exposed to every arctic gust of the night wind. For the hundredth time, he wishes he could’ve had just a _little_ more luck when being assigned a partner, wishes he could have another drink.

“So, how’s it looking out there?” he asks Rust.

“Dark.”

“Dark?”

“It tastes bitter,” Rust intones sagely. Marty is tempted to ask Rust exactly how much he’d been drinking or what he hit his head on, but their pleasant chat is cut mercifully short when the headlights of the police pickup reappear, turning off the interstate and back down the service road toward them.

After the floodlights are set up, the crime scene techs grab their tools and evidence markers and march out into the field, melting into the shadows of the overgrown underbrush. Rust follows them out. Marty at first trails behind, but then discovers that Rust’s walking pace is infuriating. He picks up one foot, sways a bit to get his balance, steps down, picks up his other foot, sways again, steps forward – every step deliberate and patient. Marty charges ahead a few steps and then turns back to watch Rust weaving his way through the grass, almost mesmerized by the dancer-like motions.

“Take your time, the sun’s not up yet,” he says.

Rust doesn’t respond.

As they’re walking the grid, Marty witnesses Rust gets in a fight with one of the techs, Isaiah Timothy. Well no, that’s not entirely accurate – Timothy simply makes the mistake of not considering a stray candy wrapper as evidence. Honestly, they’re right by the highway, and garbage is blown into the field by passing cars and out again by the wind all day long, the obstinate, muleheaded Timothy explains, on and on. Rust listens to Timothy ramble with a condescendingly patient posture and placid expression on his face that implies he has both the time and energy to stay there all day, if necessary, until Timothy exhausts himself and surrenders. Finally, the tech throws his hands up in exasperation, presumably deciding that obliging Rust is far less troublesome than just grabbing him by the throat and thrashing him.

After the search finishes, Timothy zips up the newly-discovered cadaver in a body bag and departs on the ambulance, looking more than happy to be getting far, far away from Rust. The rest of the forensic scientists scattered about the scene also start packing their tools, but Rust stands there unmoving, continuing to scribble in his notebook. Beside him, Marty’s crouched on the ground, his hands cut and bleeding from pushing through the razor-edged sawgrass. Feeling itchy and sore, he stands up and dusts himself off.

“How are you getting back?” Marty asks.

Silence.

He coughs once and awaits a response. But Rust is still in no mood for a conversation.

“How did you get here?” he tries again.

Continued silence.

In the distance, a thin cold layer of morning mist rises off the roadside canal and drifts in over the field, shifting with the wind, like pale fingers stroking against Marty’s skin. He hears the sounds of a radio from somewhere, but can’t tell if it’s a song or a sportscast. He decides to try with Rust one more time.

“Do you need a ride?”

Rust flips his book shut.

“Yeah,” he says.

Marty starts the car. Rust ducks inside, rests his head on the headrest, and closes his eyes. He stirs when the radio starts up, eyebrows drawn together with the air of a man enduring a great annoyance. Marty reaches out to shut the radio off. Rust suddenly opens his eyes and stares blankly right at him. Marty jumps and jerks backwards, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the car.

“What?” he snaps.

“You don’t have to turn it off,” Rust says.

_I fucking need a new partner_ , Marty thinks menacingly.

Rust is mostly quiet on the ride back, at least until they reach town. Then he sighs and stirs, looking out at the passing scenery. His face, leaning up against the car window, is backlit by the dawn light, and his eyes look black as ink.

“What’s up?” Marty halfheartedly asks, hoping fervently that Rust won’t respond.

No response, a pause, and then –

“You know, you ask some really good questions.”

“What?”

“How did you get here? Where’re you going?” Rust says, eyes half-shut. He shifts around again, seemingly entirely unconcerned whether Marty will answer him or not.

The radio announcer advertises some brand or another of laundry detergent, talks about nothing in particular for a little while, then segues into an unfamiliar country song. A man mumbling to himself about _spring has passed, summer is coming, and I still haven’t found my one true love._

Rust rolls down the window and drowns out the radio with the sound of the wind rushing by.

“Walking up one road, walking down another,” he says vaguely.

_Now she’s gone, and I don’t worry, ‘cause I’m sittin’ on top of the world._

 

**III.**

Marty’s the one who answers the door when Rust shows up for dinner, only to find Rust standing there half-hunched over and barely staying vertical, a bouquet of flowers dangling precariously from his hand. He seems hazy and off-kilter, like he’d just been mugged, or like he’s nursing a massive hungover. Quite possibly both.

Rust mumbles an apology and tries to make an escape back down the front steps – but he staggers, trips on the top stair, and starts to fall backward. Reacting unconsciously, Marty yanks him forward by the collar with one hand, latching his other hand onto Rust’s shoulder, realizing only belatedly that accidentally choking Rust to death would sort of be a bad move on his part. Rust manages to steady himself and raises both hands in apology, still holding onto the flowers, _shit, I’m so sorry, man, I’m sorry_. He mumbles something else after that, but he's already stressed enough, so Marty just lets it slide.

Dinner is listless and awkward and Rust deliberately prevaricates when the conversation turns to him. Marty senses his daughters staring at them the whole time, hears them giggling and exchanging secretive whispers, most likely sizing Rust up. One of the two girls tries to launch a piece of spaghetti at Rust’s face. Marty can’t tell which of the two is the perpetrator, but secretly, doesn’t actually mind the mischief. They’re usually well-behaved, and overall, he’s a good parent – he chalks it up to Rust’s general aura of weirdness rubbing off on them.

Maggie tries several times to engage Rust in small talk, but he just stares determinedly at the wallpaper and responds with curt, uncivil replies while picking absently at his spaghetti, giving off the general impression of not actually being present in the room. Sometime around nine o’clock, Maggie excuses herself to get more food. The pasta on Marty’s plate looks sickly and yellow in the dull light of the room and he loses his appetite for eating, wants another drink instead – but it’s still too early for that, and besides, Rust’s still very much sitting there in front of him with an air of extreme discomfort. He thinks he really ought to say something, but then Maggie returns, holding a plate of steak. She stoops down to serve the two men, focused entirely on the task at hand and nothing else. A stray lock of hair falls across her eyes and in that instant, she overwhelmingly reminds Marty of her parents.

The thought leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He washes it out with a mouthful of whiskey and then decides that he needs to end this drawn-out farce right now.

Marty excuses himself under the pretext of a phone call and stands by the window, looking at the light filtering in from from the Wilson’s windows next door – they’re watching TV, probably. After a bit, he wonders if Wilson’s thinking the same thing about him and what he’s doing. Marty cuts his musing short and returns to the kitchen.

In the hallway, he becomes half-aware that Rust and Maggie are talking, and when he re-enters the kitchen, they don’t even turn to look at him. He watches Rust pick up his fork like he’s noticed his food for the first time. The man’s a mess, eyes bloodshot, face weathered by suffering, but his expression is one of utter calm. Maggie’s looking at him, expression unreadable.

The scene looks utterly natural, like something out of a TV drama, and Marty quietly retreats, wishing he hadn’t had quite so much to drink, wishing he could say something meaningful.

Rust turns around and looks at him.

And for a fleeting second, something incomprehensible happens: Marty can suddenly see Rust very clearly – every scar and mark on his face, each a testament to some great melancholy or loss, every fine line by his eyes and mouth that aged him well beyond his years – Marty can read Rust’s face like an open book.

Rust seems to know exactly what Marty’s thinking.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Marty blinks, jolts back to reality.

The moment passes.

 

**IV.**

One day, as he’s coming off-shift, Marty runs into Rust in the shower.

Or, to be more precise, he walks into the locker room bathroom and sees Rust sitting on the floor of one of the shower stalls with the spray on full-blast, filling the air with hot steam and mist. He’s unmoving, but his back is leaning solidly against the wall, so Marty rules out the possibility that he’s somehow slipped and fallen.

“What are you doing?” Marty asks, walking into the next stall over.

“Trying to keep myself awake.”

“Is it working?”

“Too soon to tell.”

Marty mentally wishes him luck, turns the water on, lathers up his bar of soap, and then decides that, in fact, he really ought to to say something.

“You alright over there? Not gonna drown, are you?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

Apparently giving up on whatever he’s actually trying to accomplish by sitting there in meditative silence, Rust clears his throat after a few minutes, heaves a deep breath, then starts reciting a late-night infomercial about mail-order goods. Marty shampoos his hair and Rust launches into Metaphysics 101, a lecture that even a student at the State University of Fucking Dumbasses could understand. Marty washes the suds from his hair; Rust gives his overarching theory on how life is all just a great hallucination. Marty scrubs at his skin until it turns pink. Rust explains how one’s entire fundamental cognitive identity is a meticulously constructed lie. Finally, as Marty rinses off and grabs a towel, Rust concludes that life is, ultimately, meaningless.

For the entire duration of the speech, there are miraculously no choking or spluttering noises from the next stall over, just a long and continuous drawl of words – yet another perfectly ordinary day in the life of detective-philosopher Rust Cohle.

“You awake now?” Marty asks.

“I think so.”

“Good.”

As Marty’s changing in the locker room, Rust walks in with a towel around his waist, his skin flushed and wrinkled from sitting under the spray of hot water for so long. Marty wrestles his locker door open and suddenly wonders where Rust spent the night last night. Maybe on the bare mattress in his apartment, in the back room of a bar, in the back seat of his pickup, parked in a truck stop, sleeping on some stranger’s couch.

He tries to think of Rust living a normal life, sitting outside on a lawn chair somewhere, watching his children play, but he completely fails to conjure up with the image.

Marty pulls a t-shirt on and watches Rust dry off his hair. That’s when he notices the three irregularly shaped scars on his belly, faded and pale, each about the size of a coin, then sees the track marks dotting his bare arms. Marty slams his locker door shut, feeling inexplicably guilty, like he’s intruded on some desperately painful side of Rust’s life he had absolutely no right to bear witness to.

“By the way, I borrowed your blanket,” Rust says.

“What?”

“I slept the break room last night. It was alright at first, but I got cold, so I borrowed your blanket.”

“Oh. That's ok.”

Rust finishes changing and then, damned if Marty knows how it happens, they both end up eating dinner together at a local diner. It’s close to sunset and the dim room is packed with people, so they grab a table outside. Rust gets soup, Marty orders a sandwich, and they wash everything down with beer and donuts. The jukebox in the restaurant faintly plays _Free Bird_ on repeat. It’s awkward until Rust grimaces and says something sarcastic and inconsiderate about the music selection, and then everything settles comfortably.

In the west, the sky is bright as shining water. The horizon is lit up by the setting sun, dyed in a gradient, gold fading into to shallow purple. Marty slaps at mosquitoes as he eats – Rust seems immune to the bugs, and contentedly licks grease off his fingers. They both reach for the last donut. Marty jokingly knocks Rust’s hand aside and grabs it. Rust, astonishingly, quirks a smile. They pay for their meal, Marty tips, and Rust grabs his bag of leftovers and heads toward his pickup. Marty spares a thought for him, wondering where he’s planning on roughing the night tonight.

Right before he climbs into his pickup, Rust suddenly looks over his shoulder – not at Marty directly, but definitely in his direction. Out of habit, Marty raises a hand and waves goodbye.

Rust pauses in apparent confusion. He slowly also raises and hand and waves, but it looks bizarre when he does it. The motion doesn’t suit him in the least.

He climbs into his truck without another backwards glance.

 

**V.**

At first, it’s just a case of disorderly conduct, but then some idiot opens fire, and _then_ nearly all the officers in the county are called to descend upon the Superdome Stadium to keep the peace so the Saints vs. Panthers game can safely resume.

Marty fervently wishes he could be there, but the dispatcher passes him and Rust over for the job, and the two of them – one swearing continuously under his breath, one not making a sound – are instead sent on a long, winding midnight hike through the woods on an entirely different case. After some time, when Marty guesses they’re about halfway to where they’re supposed to be, he suddenly stops stock-still and raises his flashlight to make sure what he’s looking at isn’t just a figment of his imagination. Unfortunately, it's real. Cutting across their path is a swollen estuary river, and spanning the few dozen feet of roaring, roiling water is a rickety single-plank bridge.

“You’ve got to be fucking _joking_ ,” Marty groans. Rust also points his flashlight toward the bridge and stares, doubt written clearly on his face.

They technically _could_ turn back now and detour around on Route 90, but that would take another hour, at least. The trail is the shortest distance between where they were and where they need to be. Marty considers the consequences of wasting valuable police time: Salter would probably rip them a new one and nail their heads above his office door as an example to the other officers. He decides he would much rather try his luck with Rust instead. They silently rock-paper-scissors for who has to take the lead. Marty loses and cautiously steps out first onto the bridge, Rust trailing close after.

They finally break out of the woods into a clearing where an old abandoned warehouse sits. Two other patrol cars are already there, parked at a distance from the building, and a group of panicked young kids are huddled by the railings outside. None of them look any older than fifteen or sixteen. Rust starts to move across the clearing. Marty hangs back by the cars and looks at the group of kids again. The eldest among them is a blue-haired boy with snakebite piercings. He’s holding something concealed by his side – shit, it’s a gun, _he’s got a gun_ –

The boy, crying and choking out a litany of _sorry, sorry, I’m sorry_ , steps into the open space between his friends and the advancing detective. The tears running down his face smudge his eyeliner and smear dark tracks on his cheeks.

He levels his weapon right at Rust.

Rust doesn’t stop. He raises both his hands and whispers a stream of soothing words, all the while creeping closer. Marty’s mentally screaming, every muscle in his body tense, humming with suspense. He’s about to charge from the safety of the patrol cars and grab Rust back, save his dumbass hide. But Rust turns his head and, with a fierce look, wordlessly commands him with to stay exactly where he is.

Marty, half-frantic and entirely furious, is helpless to do anything else but obey.

Rust inches right up to the boy, carefully takes the gun from his hands, and gently draws him into his arms. Marty waits all of a half-second before sprinting over. The boy’s still choking out _sorry, sorry, sorry_ in some kind of rhythmic chant – at this point, the word’s lost all meaning for Marty.

The rest of the kids are safely subdued without a fight. As they are being shepherded away by the other officers, one of the younger girls, a strange, wide-eyed child, looking scared to death and slightly woozy, gives Rust a braided amulet.

“You’re going to need this,” she states simply, and then is led off without another word.

That leaves Marty and Rust to make the laborious trip back through the woods toward the car, and at the midway point, they’re forced once again to brave the plank bridge stretching across the turbulent river. When they’ve edged halfway across, Marty looks back to say something to Rust and missteps on a mossy patch of wood. Before he can react, he slips and plunges straight down into the water.

Rough waves slap across his face as he struggles to keep his head above water. In the second before he loses the fight to stay afloat, he sees that Rust isn’t on the bridge anymore, either – the idiot must’ve jumped in after him, but hell if Marty knows where he is now. He goes under. He can’t reach bottom, doesn’t know which way is up, and can’t hear anything over the rushing water. All he can do is fight, fucking fight for his life.

Water floods into his mouth and drags him down like a noose around his neck. A dark shape flashes before his eyes and his arm grazes against something. Rust.

He funnels all his energy into swimming toward shore, but it’s too difficult with the icy water cutting at him like knives. He feels like he’s being torn apart. Frantic now, he thrashes out again and miraculously, brushes against Rust. He latches tightly onto him.

The minutes that follow are a slow, hazy blur. He’s above water, then he’s in over his head, gulping in air, choking and drowning. He clings desperately to his will to survive and also onto Rust – the bastard’s been knocked unconscious and is just a useless, dead weight in his arms. He fights to tread water in the middle of the river with the current pouring around him, directionless and helpless, trapped in a swirling roar of foam.

For a brief second, the thought of just letting Rust go flashes across his mind. Just as quickly, he rejects it.

_Well, at least I won’t have died a coward._

Rust stirs, conscious again, his head nudging against Marty’s neck. Marty can’t tell if he’s just hallucinating, but then Rust thrashes out, trying to keep afloat. It doesn’t do them any good, but at least the fucker’s awake, that’s good.

Marty flails in the direction of what he hopes is the riverbank. If he’s wrong, they’re done, but the thought doesn’t scare him. He can’t feel anything anymore, just a sort of resignation that this really might be the end, that he might just drown with the Taxman in a fucking river – it’s not even a _big_ river, for Christ’s sake, just an overflowed stream –

Then Marty realizes, with a jolt of fear, that Rust is prying his fingers loose from his shoulder.

Marty draws upon some last reserve of his strength from deep within him, focuses all of his remaining energy on kicking wildly to shore. When he’s aware of his surroundings again, he finds himself lying on his back in the shallows, too drained to even flip over and crawl the last few feet out of the water. It’s Rust who clumsily starts dragging him up the bank.

Once they’re both on dry land, Marty slowly recovers his strength and starts throwing up water. He looks at Rust sitting there, propped up on one hand, unmoving.

He looks mildly surprised to still be alive – or perhaps, greatly disappointed.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem, you son of a bitch!” Marty yells, because he doesn’t currently possess the strength to physically attack Rust.

Rust gives no answer. His face is twisted in pain, water dripping from his chin and pouring out of his mouth as he shudders and chokes. After a few minutes, he sighs, scrubs at his face with his hands, and turns toward Marty without making eye contact.

“Thank you,” he says.

Nothing more.

Then he starts coughing again, the lonely sound filling the whole forest, like a lost creature calling out.

Slowly, laboriously, he stands and takes an unsteady breath. Marty scowls at him, tries once, tries again, and finally also staggers to his feet. He curls his hand into a fist.

It’s not the ugliest fight they’ve ever had, but it comes close. Though Marty’s still soaking wet and out of breath, he’s seething with rage and dead-set on beating the fucking shit out of Rust. Most of his wild punches connect with nothing but thin air. The few that he lands are brutal. Rust makes little effort to defend himself.

Finally, Marty swings blindly and hits Rust right in the nose.

Rust’s hands shoot up to his face and he bends over and muffles a stream of curses. There’s still anger burning hot in Marty’s chest, but he abruptly stops fighting and leans his hands on his knees, trying to see past the stars dancing before his eyes.

And that’s that.

They start stumbling their way down the narrow trail again. They’ve both lost their flashlights somewhere in the water and the woods are pitch-black, so they keep together by walking side-by-side. Rust remembers the path back, but the going is considerably more difficult than the trip out – they’re stumbling on the uneven ground, exhausted, still fuming. The undergrowth by the path is ominously still. The subtle cry of some animal echoes in the dark distance, a nightbird caws twice. Rust’s shoulder keeps bumping into Marty’s, but they don’t say a word to each other.

When they finally get to the car and climb in, Marty first turns on the heater to dry out their drenched clothes. The car quickly fills with the cold damp smell of river water and rotting leaves. Rust is sitting still, no longer shivering, but Marty decides they both need to warm up more before he starts the engine to drive home.

Suddenly, Rust looks at Marty. He clenches his hand into a fist, reaches over, and rests it lightly on Marty’s neck. Marty flinches backwards, almost slamming into the car door. Rust then unfurls his hand and presses two cold, damp fingers to Marty’s skin. After a silent moment, Marty realizes that Rust is checking his pulse.

One long second passes. Two. Three. Under Rust’s feather-light touch, Marty’s pulse hammers away. Rust gives no indication of removing his hand and just watches him intensely, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Marty glares back, searching for any kind of expression on Rust’s face – happiness, anger, shame, relief. But he finds nothing. Rust drops his hand, sits back, and turns his blank stare out the windshield.

Marty waits a full minute.

Silence.

“Congratulations!” he snaps, his suppressed anger exploding out of him. “You’ve _really_ outdone yourself, Rust. I mean, you're usually an asshole, but _you_ – you have just fucking crowned yourself _king_ of all the assholes. You are just _begging_ me to commit your dumbshit ass to the psych ward, you _stupid motherfucker_!” Halfway through the rant, he loses the will to keep going and instead slams both hands on the steering wheel hard enough to really hurt. The car suddenly seems claustrophobic – he feels trapped. Powerless.

The rage seeps out of him over the next few minutes, like air from a deflating tire, until there’s nothing but tired emptiness in him.

Without another word, Marty starts the car.

Rust all of a sudden grabs the handle above the window and straightens himself up. Marty eyes him warily. Rust pulls something from his pocket. It’s the strange girl’s braided amulet, soaked from the water, but remarkably, still in his possession.

Marty fights off an overwhelming urge to start laughing and laughing and laughing.

“Yeah, I sincerely hope that’ll protect you from harm,” he says. In his mind, the words sound flippant and sarcastic, but said out loud, they’re flat, hard, bitter. Marty wrenches the steering wheel to one side and starts driving.

Rust doesn’t respond, just hangs the amulet around his neck and tucks it under his shirt.

 

**VI.**

In 2000, Marty and Rust work a case in Chalmette. Even years later, Marty's hard pressed to explain exactly what it was about. Something involving a fraternity hazing and college students being tied naked to the campus clock tower – Rust refuses to go into specifics at first, so Marty just puts his head down and does what he’s told, telling himself that at least he’s not investigating somewhere in the backcountry and wading knee-deep through the muddy bayou. But then their case grows exponentially more baffling and soon, convicted cartel traffickers and suspected Mexican moonshiners are cropping up left and right. Not that Marty’s the least bit shocked, because every case he works with Rust is just full of such surprises.

Somewhere along the way, they get into a fight. It’s nothing new, honestly, just Rust doing his usual Turner and Hooch routine and barely speaking a word to Marty, who increasingly gets the feeling that Rust regards him as the dumb slobbery dog in this partnership. So while they’re stopped at some gas station or other, Marty starts dramatically barking and howling just to piss Rust off. Rust, for his part, just stands against a wall with an expression of infinite patience, like if he just stayed put long enough, everything would fall into place on its own – even years later, Marty can still remember that distinctive expression very clearly. After Marty’s finished being an asshole and goes to find a vending machine, Rust still keeps standing there with his head down, still keeps giving him the silent treatment.

Eventually, they hunt the suspect down on foot in a mad steeplechase through a field. The guy zigzags, dashes off, and Marty’s running at him from one side, Rust’s sprinting from the other, and of _course_ they collide solidly with each other. Rust lands on top of Marty, who hears an ominous crack from his ribs.

There is an extended pause.

“I suppose I should get up now,” Rust says very wisely, still half-lying on Marty.

Marty physically chokes back the urge to scream.

As they’re returning to the local precinct, Rust asks if he’s alright, actively implying that Marty has every right to yell at him – but because Marty is a saint, he doesn’t. The radio DJ tunes in and drowns out Rust’s flat and thoughtful drawl with her enthusiastic chatter. The entire situation is too comical for Marty to really be angry, and instead he just prods at the bruise blossoming on his side, wondering what the hell they’re going to write on the case report. He can just imagine Salter’s reaction. _You two did_ what _? What the fuck is this_ , Dumb and Dumber _?_

In the Chalmette precinct, Marty and Rust jump through the requisite procedural hoops, lock up the bad guy, and then spend the night in town in the cheapest motel they can find. Marty racks his brain over a drink or six, trying to put together the investigation report.

The next day, he wakes up in the bathtub, of all places, with a massive hangover-induced headache and wearing only his pants and one shoe. He wonders if Rust played some kind of prank on him, and squints suspiciously at Rust, who's looking fresh and put-together, sitting guilelessly on the couch watching the morning news.

They stop for breakfast on their way back to the state police office to wrap everything up. Marty has no appetite for food, and takes a swig of his coffee only to realize that he’s somehow ended up with _Irish_ coffee. He figures, _fuck it_ , he might as well cure his hangover with more alcohol, and by the time they finish their debriefing, he’s merrily tipsy yet again.

While he’s waiting for Rust to hunt down some files and getting a bit pissed at how long it’s taking, the on-duty officers tell Marty that there’s a parade in New Orleans that afternoon, and since they’re not working, they should definitely go check it out. When Rust comes back, Marty grabs half a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and chucks his car keys at Rust.

“We’re going to New Orleans to see a parade,” he says, once he’s settled in the passenger seat.

Rust looks at him impassively.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You owe me one,” Marty says.

He’s eighty percent sure that Rust would rather have a hot poker stuck up his ass than, God forbid, _have some fun_ or something. But Rust shrugs, pulls a U-turn out of the parking lot, and then they’re on the road to New Orleans.

Well. If he’d known _that_ particular tactic would be so effective, he’d have used it more often.

They arrive in the city early, so Rust parks somewhere and they find a bar to sit in and kill an hour or so. Like every other time he’s gone drinking with Rust, it’s a bit strange and awkward, but with its bright and funny moments. Right as Marty’s getting well and truly drunk, he hears a faint pounding noise from outside.

Everyone sitting at the bar, at the tables, in the kitchen, all look toward the street. The parade's started.

The low brass lead the way, filling the air with a rich and deep resonance, the curved polished metal of the instruments reflecting and distorting the faces of the bystanders as they file by. The snare drums follow closely after, row on row, each precise tap and drumroll like a kick in the chest. Marty stands unsteadily at the door of the bar, practically unaware that Rust has followed him out and is standing beside him. Leading the parade is a round-shouldered, bright-eyed conductor dressed in a striped shirt and overalls, flanked by two trumpeters on either side and two tuba players behind him. The musicians are sweating profusely, but they’re beaming with pride. The conductor partially improvises the music, mixing the crowd’s cheers and claps into the beat of the marching song.

Suddenly, as if a floodgate is thrown open, people open their doors and windows and start rushing out onto the street. The sounds of TV and radio broadcasts float out into the street, mixing with the marching band. Young boys, little girls, old men and women, everyone pours outside and starts dancing, kicking up dust as they leap and twirl. The street becomes a confusing, joyous mass of bodies. The song repeats once, twice, and then transforms into something magical, a wave that courses over everyone, mixing in the sounds and smells of the street – beer, fried food, drumming, frenzied chanting – and rushing relentlessly forward and onward.

Rust fidgets beside Marty. There’s a sheen of sweat on his face and his sleeves are rolled up, exposing the tattoo on his arm.

“You wanna leave?” Marty asks, raising his voice above the clamor in the streets.

Rust doesn’t answer, just shakes his head. He uncrosses his arms from his chest, wandering off in the direction the parade’s heading like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Once Marty gets over his shock, he follows quickly after.

The parade winds through the hot and humid crush of people in the French Quarter, the brassy instruments catching the light of the setting sun and shining like flickering, dancing flames. An athletic-looking young woman wearing a tight dress jumps out from the procession and grabs Marty by the arm, inviting him to dance with her. He pulls away and backs up, nearly bumping into Rust. When Marty looks back over, the woman is already gone, vanished into the mass of people.

Standing in the middle of the festive, raucous crowd, Marty all of a sudden feels lost, like an outsider. He’s still drunk, but among the screaming and yelling, he has a weird sense of dissociation, as if he’s just woken up to find himself in a place where nobody can see or hear him. He shields himself, trying to keep everyone else at a comfortable distance. But there’s too many people crowding in, every claustrophobic inch of space filled with writhing, squirming bodies.

He reaches out, wanting to hold onto something. Almost unconsciously, he finds Rust and grabs onto his shoulder.

Rust freezes, then grabs onto his arm, pulling him out of the crowd.

_Oh, yeah now, they call me the most, I won’t stop trying’ till I create a disturbance in your mind …_

The lead trumpeter strikes up some old New Orleans classic, _Ooh Poo Pah Doo_. The rest of the band band joins in, backed by the singing of everyone else all up and down the street. The young link hands with the old and start dancing together, someone’s on the ground doing flips and handstands, bounding up quick as lightning and whirling away again. The neighborhood's residents poke their heads out from the second-floor windows to look upon the street, showering encouragement and pelting mockery down on the crowd below.

“What a goddamn mess,” Marty says, feeling like he might just throw up.

Rust starts to say something, but Marty stops him. He tries again, and Marty grabs tightly onto his shoulder to shut him up. He currently has no desire to hear Rust nonstop running his mouth. Not that he’s ungrateful, but he doesn’t need a lecture right now, not when he feels like he having a bad trip on some psychedelic shit. Rust gently extricates himself from Marty’s grasp and leads him in the opposite direction of the festival, far away enough that the sounds a radio broadcast drifting out the window of a nearby parked car is louder than the parade music.

“I am the world’s biggest idiot,” Marty says.

“Yeah, you are,” Rust says serenely. For a second, Marty thinks Rust almost sounds _wise_ , but then he chalks that up to, well, maybe he’s suffering from a mild case of heatstroke or something. He has the urge to slam his head repeatedly against a wall until he feels better. As if _that’ll_ help.

“Hey, did you throw me in the bathtub last night?” Marty asks.

“Yep.”

Ten minutes later, they find themselves sitting in another bar and Marty feels his headache coming back again with a vengeance, crawling out of whatever alcohol-soaked back alley he ditched it in earlier, ready to punch him square in the face.

“Why’d you come here with me?” Marty mumbles into his glass of beer.

“I had nothing better to do.” It’s clearly a lie.

Rust eats the food he’s ordered and once again proves himself an infuriating son of a bitch by refusing to give Marty the real reason for the trip, no matter how much Marty cajoles or threatens. But finally, a strangely intimate sort of expression flickers over his face – and Marty suddenly wants to stop this conversation _right now_ before it gets out of hand.

He pays the tab, tips, and leaves. The streets outside are silent, the parade has moved on downtown.

Their car is nowhere to be found.

On the ground where it was originally parked is written in large chalk letters: _YOUR CAR HAS BEEN TOWED, PLEASE CONTACT X-XXX-XXXX … DUMBASS._

They stand there gawking for a full minute.

“I swear to God – how can you manage to turn something as simple as _parking a car_ into a fucking _science fair_?” Marty yells.

Rust glances over at him.

“I don’t have a fucking clue,” he says.

He sounds so serious that it’s actually funny. Marty looks at him blankly and then they both start howling with laughter. The whole situation is weird as hell, but they look at each other, start laughing again, and it’s not strange to them, not in the least.

Almost the whole neighborhood is off partying, but they finally spot a decrepit old green pickup by a street corner. The owner of the vehicle is a mixed-race Creole who contemptuously switches over to rapid, unintelligible French when Marty flashes his badge. Marty can’t understand a word he’s saying, but after Rust has a talk with him, the man cheerfully agrees to give them a ride and even turns down the cash offered to him for his trouble. So the two clamber into the bed of the truck and rattle off.

The streets grow emptier and emptier as they drive, and a silence slowly envelops them as the setting sun slowly slides behind the two- and three-story wood houses. The truck jostles around and Marty’s head still hurts, but he’s reluctant to waste the half-bottle of beer he’s holding onto, so he takes a drink.

He hesitates, then hands the bottle to Rust. Rust stares vacantly at it for a second, but then takes it, lifts it to his lips, and drinks deeply.

“Thou shalt not park in front of windows, isn’t that the general rule?” Marty asks.

A pause.

“Sounds about right,” Rust says.

Marty sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Rust and watches the calm rise and fall of his chest through his t-shirt. Rust stares straight ahead, expression once again unreadable. He looks like a vague and terrifying being, possibly half-deranged, but at the same time, he’s a solid, strong presence, vividly intelligent and _alive_.

Since when had Rust stopped being just a useless paperweight sitting at the desk across from his? Since when had Rust stopped being so apathetic, so mercilessly emotionless? He probably never was in the first place. Maybe, Marty surmises, he was the only one to notice.

He draws in a deep breath of muggy air, taking in the smell of sewage water and dried grass, and settles again into the bumpy ride. He feels something intangible hanging in the air, suddenly gets the sense that something very important is about to happen.

Rust catches Marty staring, looks levelly right back at him.

Half his face is lit by the setting sun, clear and defined in the dying light and the other half of his face is shrouded in shadow and he looks like he knows every single bit of knowledge, every single secret in the universe. In the moment when they’re looking at each other, Marty feels like he’s struggling to say something, feels like he’s _this close_ to figuring out, once and for all, what unhealed wounds still scar the man sitting beside him, what raw feelings Rust holds so close and protectively to his heart.

Marty holds his breath.

Rust turns away again, takes another pull from the bottle.

The moment passes.

On the road behind them, the streetlights gradually flicker on, like the pickup is leaving little speckles of light in its wake. Marty looks back. New Orleans is now just a multicolored, incandescent blaze in the distance, brighter in some places and dimmer in others, shining radiance pouring out from doors and windows and porch lights and street lamps, brilliant and shimmering.

The lights illuminate the night sky but the void above gives no answers in return. The world just hangs there, waiting.

_It’s so beautiful._

**Author's Note:**

> author's note: thank you to stella for proofreading.
> 
> translator's note: whoooo wow - honestly, this probably deserves better than what it got, but i really didn't think i'd be able to pull it off in the first place, or that it'd be so long! as always, any mistakes, mistranslations, or misinterpretations are my own fault. also, apologies for excessive use of the en-dash and emphatic italics.
> 
> 说实在话，我觉得这作故事值得个更好的翻译, 但是我他妈的 。。。 我真的没想到我可以完成翻译这作故事，或者会这么长！如果有什么翻译错了，是我的错。


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